


cameras are flashing

by Roxie Ann (pluvial_poetry)



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Community: kink_bingo, Facials, Intercrural Sex, M/M, Pictures, Plot What Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-12
Updated: 2012-01-12
Packaged: 2017-10-29 09:29:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/318390
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pluvial_poetry/pseuds/Roxie%20Ann
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur is kind of a stalker. Eames likes having his picture taken.</p>
            </blockquote>





	cameras are flashing

Arthur's laptop is open on his desk, and social and cultural mores aside, this presents Eames with a dilemma. If Arthur were to catch him snooping that would certainly cause problems that Eames doesn't need. Conversely, and sadly for his good intentions, Arthur isn't here to catch him.

The laptop itself turns out to be a bit boring, though, he thinks as he scrolls through file names, and not worth the risk of maimed by Arthur in some horribly sadistic manner. No porn, no emails from relatives or lovers, nothing particularly amusing and nothing incriminating. Beyond the obvious, of course, international mind heist being what it is. Eames is set to give it up as a bad job when he finds something buried in a sub-directory, better than he could have ever imagined, so innocuously named (27052009) that Eames almost passed it by - a photograph of himself.

"What do you think you're doing?"

Eames avoids a guilty flinch at the sound of Arthur's voice suddenly close behind him, but only just. He wheels around and smiles beatifically instead, doesn't bother with justifications or apologies because Arthur never accepts either. He also gathers that Arthur's question is rhetorical, because judging by the delightfully grouchy frown on his face, Arthur knows exactly what he's doing.

"Not my best angle," he says, turning back to zoom in on the photograph, until it fills the entire screen. Although in all honesty, Eames had always flattered himself to think that he didn't have a bad angle, and, interestingly enough, Arthur clearly agrees. He snorts at Eames' little bit of false humility, a quiet disbelieving noise, and when he looks behind Eames at the picture itself, he doesn't quite manage to cover the quick flash of pure appreciation in his eyes.

The laptop monitor shows Eames lying sleeping in a reclining chair, an IV line connecting him to the PASIV. His mouth soft and parted, and his prick half-hard, obvious through the thin linen of his trousers. Perhaps most surprising is that this isn't a snapshot, taken by Arthur on a whim. It's deliberately composed, painstakingly framed. Arthur had taken his time with it. Watching him sleep, waiting for the right moment, the perfect image. And if he may say so himself, he looks indolently sexy in repose. He wonders if Arthur had gotten hard taking the photo, had wanted to fuck him just as he looked then, riding him slowly while Eames was moving through the dream, waiting for the kick. If he had thought about Eames jolting back to the waking world with Arthur's arsehole tight around his cock, squeezing him as he spills, filling Arthur with his come.

Eames is half-hard now, just from thinking of it.

Arthur leans over him, bracing one hand on the arm of Eames' chair, the collar of his white oxford unbuttoned now that they're at the tail end of their work day, and the long pale expanse of his throat, the smooth, flawless skin there, is bared to Eames' mouth as he reaches out. Arthur hesitates, looking down at Eames, not even breathing.

And then his hand moves past Eames to definitively slam the laptop closed. He stands back quickly when he's done.

"Stay off of my laptop, Eames," Arthur says.

*

There had once been a time when Eames had applied himself to the task of seducing Arthur. The appraising glances, the slow smiles as he stood too close, lingering over every touch. He had been set to launch a full scale attack on Arthur's trousers, when fortunately for Dior Homme, Arthur had responded in kind. Which lead to more than one instance of heated, furtive, mutual gropings in dark alleys and the back offices of their workspace. Arthur hadn't wanted it to go any further though, pity that. And while Arthur is distractingly gorgeous and has an arse that would be worth making a bit of effort for, Eames has never really dwelt on the might have beens. Well, that part is obviously a lie, but what he means to say is that after a time they have settled into a semi-competitive professional mode, and it works for them.

Ostensibly they are working a job now, with Eames posing as an associate of Green, Green, and Murdock.

He spends his day trailing the mark to meetings, all the while knowing Arthur is across the way, in another building with a telephoto lens, taking reference photos for Eames to review later, and most likely, considering recent evidence, taking photos of Eames himself. And so Eames ends up spending a fair share of his time genuinely _posing_. Wondering what kind of shots Arthur would prefer, the ones that he might keep, for his own personal use.

Eames stands so that his face catches the light from the south facing windows, his hands on his waist to emphasize his broad physicality, the dramatic taper of his shoulders down to his hips. How strong Eames' thighs look when he stands with his feet braced apart, the perfect width for holding someone else's weight.

And Christ, maybe Arthur is touching himself now, right through his slim fitting trousers, his hand cupped over his cock, palm kneading it slowly, as he imagines it. Climbing up Eames, wrapping his long, lovely legs around Eames' waist, letting Eames press him against the wall, fucking down on Eames' cock, hard, until Eames' knees give out, and Arthur comes, shouting Eames' name.

"Garrett? Are you coming?" The mark asks Eames, frowning down at the ledger in his hand as he passes by.

Eames swallows what would have been a slightly hysterical laugh, and follows.

*

Eames does have his scruples. Of a sort. And even though Arthur is a dreadful tease, as well as clearly stalking him, Eames is not going to call him on it. Arthur's predilections are his own and Eames respects his privacy. Or will respect it in the future, going forward.

He finds the next photograph completely unintentionally. Is it his fault, that when he picked up Arthur's moleskine from where Arthur must have accidentally left it out on his desk, that it fell open to the place where Arthur had tucked a picture into its pages?

He remembers when this photograph was taken, or thereabouts, shortly before they first met. He'd been working a con with some blokes out of Dartmouth, nothing to do with dream tech, when Arthur had shown up with a job opportunity. But he must have been running surveillance on him for weeks beforehand to have nabbed this shot.

In the picture Eames looks like a bit of rough Arthur might have picked up, standing in a dark doorway, lighting a cigarette off of the dying end of his last one. His t-shirt is faded out and worn thin, clinging to the muscles in his arms and chest, tattoos peaking out from underneath his collar and sleeves. He looks like someone who might knock Arthur around a bit, hold him down, force him open around his cock as Arthur struggles and whines, his dark watchful eyes tearing up a little at the corners.

Arthur has managed to capture the raw essence of him on film, and it looks fucking fantastic.

"Don't you have work to do? At your own desk?" Arthur asks, coming up behind Eames, who startles and turns, and with ill-timed clumsiness, fumbles the moleskine and the photograph, dropping them down onto the floor.

There's an awful pause then, as they gape at each other in shock.

Arthur twitches a little, clearly mortified, his cheeks and nose a flattering shade of pink. "Eames, I'm so--" he starts to say. But then he stops. He's looking at Eames, who barely manages to draw his eyes away from the photograph on the floor in time to meet his gaze. Arthur takes a deep breath, his expression clearing.

"Oh," Arthur murmurs, "You like this." And there's dawning wonder in his voice.

Eames laughs a little, folding his arms defensively across his chest, feeling more than a little embarrassed and caught out. "Of course I do, Arthur, you take lovely photographs. In fact--" He begins, and it's a deflection, not a terribly good one at that. Eames would be ashamed of himself if he weren't frantically looking for ways to extricate himself from further humiliation at Arthur's hands.

"Eames. Shut up." Arthur says sharply. And he's flushed and gorgeous and a filthy little stalker, so Eames shuts up and listens.

"Come to my hotel room tonight," Arthur says. He moves in close, slides his hand round the back of Eames' neck and Eames leans into him, as easy as that. And Eames nods, gone hot all over, eyes cast down at the photo lying between them on the floor.

 

*

"How do you want me?" Eames says, standing in Arthur's hotel room, next to his bed. He drops his cufflinks onto the nightstand, and turns to the camera.

Arthur looks up from adjusting the height on the tripod. "Naked," he says, and his dimples flash.

The angle of the camera's view is meaningfully tilted down. "And on my knees?" Eames asks, as he strips, toeing out of his shoes and socks, flinging his shirt and trousers aside, kicking out of his pants. Eames is near frantic with the need to get on with it, but with the camera capturing his every movement for prosperity, mercifully he needn't bother to take it slow.

And then finally he's naked and hard and on his knees for Arthur, the shutter clicking away every few seconds, as Arthur moves to stand in front of him. "Yeah," Arthur says, tilting his head thoughtfully, considering him. "This is good, to start with." He's still smiling, his hands fluttering over Eames' bare skin as if he hasn't decided yet where he wants to touch first.

He settles for sliding his hands over Eames' shoulders, griping hard, his blunt fingernails digging into skin, testing the muscles there as Eames grins and flexes a little, before running his fingers along the lines of Eames' tattoos, tracing their curves down around Eames' biceps, and back up along his clavicle.

Eames can't stop his own hands from wandering, down from Arthur's trim waist, quickly sliding further round to cup his pert little arse. He wonders briefly if he's savoring this enough, after the interminable wait to get here, to have Arthur here, but with another shutter click, thinks that he'll savor it tomorrow.

Together they tug Arthur's trousers and pants down to his knees, exposing Arthur's cock; long and slim, flushed a pretty red. Eames licks his lips, he can't help himself, and Arthur groans appreciatively.

He rubs the rough, new-growth of hair at his cheeks and chin along the pale skin of Arthur's inner thighs, delighting as the skin there pinks, sucking urgent wet kisses there that will leave marks for tomorrow. There's a scent here that Eames has always liked, heady and masculine, even better now because it's Arthur.

He uses the tip of his tongue to learn the shape of Arthur's prick, all around the fat head, his circumcision scar, lapping at the precome gathering at the slit, pressing wet kisses against the base of the shaft. Arthur gasps, his whole body trembling with every touch of Eames' mouth on his cock. It makes Eames' head swim, how much Arthur wants this, needs it. He grabs at his own cock, jerking himself off, as he takes Arthur all the way in.

"Fuck, Eames, you look so good like this," Arthur murmurs, his dark lashes fluttering against his flushed cheeks. His control is slipping and his hips begin to jerk, sliding his cock deeper into Eames' throat. He hooks his thumb over Eames' bottom lip, feeling where the flat of Eames' tongue is moving against him, and says it again, "So good, Eames."

Eames might consider himself a performer, albeit not usually in this exact manner. But it's easy to make a show of this now, to moan, to cup at his balls where they've drawn up tight, to act like he loves it, because he does, he fucking loves this.

He may have made a noise that sounded pitifully like a whine when Arthur pulls away, sliding his cock out of Eames' mouth with an obscene wet sound. "I have to--" Arthur says, and then he's stroking himself, slick and easy with Eames' saliva, his face screwing up as he starts to come. Eames closes his eyes just in time, come splattering across his forehead and cheeks only a second later.

Eames raises a hand to wipe off of his eyelids, but Arthur stops him. "Wait," he whispers. And Eames waits, prick painfully hard, moments away from begging Arthur to let him get on with it.

Even so he can't help but vaguely wonder how this is photographing; his swollen mouth, the salt on his lips, the white stripes of Arthur's come dripping down the side of his face.

"Okay," Arthur says, and his thumbs gently brush over Eames' eyelids, cleaning them off. Eames can't imagine a better sight than this to open his eyes to, Arthur gone wobbly, panting and pink-faced, his softening dick hanging out of his trousers.

Eames gets to his feet, feeling a little weak-limbed himself, his heart leaping in his chest as he grabs Arthur around the waist, hauling him around and bending him over the side of the bed as Arthur laughs breathlessly.

He rucks Arthur's shirt up to his armpits, stroking at the soft, damp skin of his lower back as he grabs his prick, guiding it between Arthur's thighs. Sliding forward as Arthur's legs press closer together, tightening around him, as he thrusts in, feeling hot, sweat-slicked skin all around his cock. Eames shudders, presses his face down against Arthur's shoulder blades, inhaling deeply as he moves, slow and steady. The pleasure arcs sharply, building so quickly that he can't do anything but bite at his bottom lip to keep from crying out as he comes, griping Arthur's hips tight against his own as his orgasm shakes through him, collapsing in its aftermath.

He lies there pressed against Arthur until he hears the change in his breathing, gone slightly laboured under Eames' weight. He manages to lift himself over onto the bed beside Arthur who wriggles over onto his back, struggling out of his shirt.

"I don't know if the camera caught all that," Arthur says, wiping at the mess on his thighs, but he's grinning, his dimples on display. He's looking up at Eames like Eames is perfection, everything that he wants and needs.

And maybe that's what Eames has liked all along, that Arthur, camera or not, sees him, just him.

"Mmm," Eames says, rolling over on top of Arthur again to kiss at the gorgeous slope of his neck, the curve of his jaw, the shell of his ear. "I suppose we'll have to try it again."

And he kisses Arthur's laughing mouth. It's all simply picture perfect.

**Author's Note:**

> Title changed because I realized there was already an Inception fic titled "here's looking at you" and because if I have a chance to name a fic after Britney Spears lyrics, I take it.


End file.
